


Saving Your Butt, Jones

by xysabridde



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9829616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xysabridde/pseuds/xysabridde
Summary: Five times Shaggy has saved Fred's butt. From the line in Legend of the Phantosaur.Mild warning for children in danger.





	

Saving Your Butt, Jones

Five time Shaggy has saved Fred’s butt.

1.

They’re ten and Fred Jones has started hanging out with Norville Rogers far too much. His mom’s not been in the best of health recently, his dad’s not been in the best of tempers recently, and he’s exhausted every last video game and board game and made-up game he’s ever had. Normally he’s a child who values his own company, but too much time cooped up with his thoughts is threatening to send him stir-crazy.

Norville (Fred’s started calling him Shaggy, just like Mrs Rogers does) is obsessed with dogs, and their days generally consist of odd episodes of tag in between walking round and round looking for any sort of fluffy animal that won’t scratch their arms off or sever their jugulars should they get too close, and spending as much time with it as possible.

Sometimes it’s the springer spaniel from near Fred’s, who drowns them in kisses; sometimes it’s Mrs Robinson’s golden retriever, who whines with pleasure at every stroke and who they would take home in a heartbeat if Mrs Robinson didn’t have first claim; on occasion it’s the marmalade-coloured moggy from the library who winds round their legs and mewls if they touch the special spot between her ears; and sometimes it’s the Great Danes Shaggy’s aunt and uncle own, though they’ve been off limits ever since a mix-up at the vet’s led to Mr Rogers’ iguana being sterilised rather than his dog and a surprise litter of puppies happened a few weeks ago on the kitchen floor.

And then there’s today, when Fred answered the door and got dragged out in a whirlwind of brown hair and scrubby mauve jeans before his mother even finished her “hello Norville, how’re you?”

“Puppies, my uncle’s, Great Danes, old enough to visit now, must see,” Shaggy pants, dragging Fred by the wrist down his path. “Lots. Of. Cute. Puppies!”

“Shaggy-I-need-shoes,” Fred gasps.

Plus shoes, the two are at Mr Rogers’s within ten minutes, out of breath and even more dishevelled than usual; Shaggy jogs up to the front door and rings the doorbell three times in quick succession, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning and grinning and Fred’s trying to figure out how long it’s going to take him to save up for a puppy (how much does a Great Dane cost anyway? More or less than Mrs Robinson’s golden retriever?) when the door swings open and one is dumped in his arms.

“This one’s called Ruby,” Mr Rogers informs him, kneeling down beside the boys as Mrs Rogers places another puppy in Shaggy’s arms and they give synchronised whines of delight. “Yours is called Scooby, Norville. Like the Frank Sinatra song.”

Ruby wriggles, adjusts her gangly legs, and starts bathing Fred’s face.

“Can I take her outside for a minute? To play?” Fred begs.

“Go on then, but stay in the yard,” Mrs Rogers says, and opens the door for him.

Well, this beats another round of Solitaire with himself. Arms full of warm, fuzzy, hyper puppy, he walks outside and gently places her down, kneels on the ground and strokes until he finds the favourite spot between the ears and the puppy mewls with pleasure, dropping first onto her side, then rolling over onto her back, panting and drooling.

“Norville, get out of my Golden Grahams!” comes from the kitchen.

“It was Scooby!”

Ruby squirms up, bounces around him, bum in the air, tail wagging frantically. Fred wonders if ten-year-olds can sell kidneys, like his dad said he would have to do if his mom needed to quit work. What’s a kidney when you could have a puppy? He’s not even sure what kidneys do. Though if he couldn’t play sports afterwards, that wouldn’t be any good.

“That’s a sweet dog. Can I have a pet?”

Fred looks up to a man hanging over the fence, smiling at him. Tall man, dark hair, broad shoulders. “Uh, sure.”

But Ruby doesn’t seem to want to go near him, squishing into Fred instead. The man keeps on smiling, but his brow creases a little.

“Um, maybe she’s shy.”

“That’s OK. Mind if I come on in? I’ve been thinking about getting a dog. I’ve seen a lot of dogs around, but not a Great Dane.”

The man unhooks the gate, steps neatly round it. Fred’s heart starts to beat a little faster.

“Trick with puppies is, you just have to make yourself seem friendly to them. Crouch down, make your body seem small, and then they figure out that you’re not there to scare them or hurt them-”

“Like, Auntie June, Auntie June-”

“I’M CALLING THE POLICE!” Mrs Rogers roars. Hands swoop in and grab Fred around the chest, heft him up to a soft bosom and in a blur he and Ruby are inside and Mr Rogers has grabbed a baseball bat and is marching up the front path and the man’s running as fast as he can in the opposite direction.

Looking back, the thing Fred regrets most is that he wasn’t prepared to try out one of the traps he rigged up for his mom on the man. He explained it all to Mom, and Mom said it was clever, and ever since Fred had sort of wanted to trap someone in a trap. Just his luck that the perfect opportunity would come while he was finally getting his hands on a puppy.

-0-0-

2.

Velma sighs heavily as yoghurt cascades from her locker for the second time that week. “Aw, brother. Daph, can you hold my books for a minute?”

“You know you should report Red. He’s already ruined one set of textbooks,” Daphne says, arms full of maths guides as Velma pulls screwed-up handfuls of kitchen roll from her bag and starts to dab at the gooey mess. “Bet you somebody would rat on him.”

“What’s the point? He’d only move on to worse things.” Velma scoops the last globs of yoghurt out and dumps the soiled kitchen roll in a plastic bag. “See, done. I laminated all my books after last time anyway. Just as a precaution.”

“Velms? What happened to your locker?” Fred is the last to arrive, shortly after Shaggy, who’s mourning the sad waste of yoghurt.

“Red happened to my locker.” Velma takes the books back from Daphne, murmuring thanks as she stows everything safely away in her backpack. “It was him on Monday too. And Tuesday. And yesterday.”

Fred turns on his heel and storms towards the gym.

“Like, man, think about this!” Shaggy yells, bolting after him. “We can, like, get bloody noses, or we can just add jalapenos, marshmallows, fudge sauce and cheese ravioli and make it into a glorious yoghurt a la Shaggy!”

The door to the gym is yanked open and Red’s group look up from a magazine as one as Fred marches towards them, five foot nine of pure red-hot anger. “Get up, loser. You think chucking yoghurt over people’s possessions is funny, mind me chucking some of your blood over yours?”

Red snorts. “You really value your intestines this little?”

“You really value your face that much?”

Red clambers to his feet, glares up at Fred. Once upon a time Red was taller. That time is gone. “Bring it, Jones. I can snap your tibias in a heartbeat.”

“Nice. Pity I’ll have crushed your ribcage first.”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Red’s friends chant.

“Why would I disappoint the masses?” Red smirks, cracks his knuckles, and stretches. “Get ready for a concussion, scarf boy-”

He’s cut off by Fred’s fist in his mouth.

And from there it’s chaos as Red lunges for Fred and drags him to the floor, pins him in place and glances a blow off his cheek and Fred knees upwards and catches him square in the stomach and forces him into a headlock but Red twists and catches Fred off balance long enough to rabbit-punch him in the side and he’s spitting blood out as he swings an elbow into Fred’s back and wrenches his arm back just at the moment Fred grabs a hunk of his hair and forces him hollering into the floor of the gym-

Hands drag them apart and Fred snatches away long enough for Shaggy to rugby-tackle him back to the floor and pin him down.

“Principal’s coming!” he hisses.

Red, in front of him, is bleeding from at least two places and clutching his sore head. Fred is bruised, but otherwise intact.

“Freddy, get up!” Shaggy tugs until his friend stumbles to his feet, kicks Red one last time, and dodges the hands snatching for his ankle just in time to dodge Principal Cavendish marching in with one of the security guards.

Outside, Daphne grabs Fred’s ascot and slams him backwards into Velma’s locker. He’s too surprised to resist. “You want to lose your scholarship?”

“… OK. Sure. Sorry.” The red mist is starting to clear, and every bruise and knock is starting to hurt.

“Like, Freddy’s scholarship aside, Red was on his last strike. And he’s busted that.” Shaggy cranes round towards the gym, a grin on his face at the sight of the crumpled Red being lectured by Principal Cavendish. Fred frowns.

“Last chance?”

“My mom has coffee mornings with his mom. Why d’you think I let you fight him instead of dragging you away before you started brawling?”

A smile slowly grows on Fred’s face. “I never thought you were such a schemer.”

Shaggy just smirks.

-0-0-

3.

“Hey, look at this!” Fred hefts the book up in both hands, squints through the dirt the book is caked in at the title. “’Alchemy for the Evil at Hearte’.”

“Still a better love story than Twilight,” Velma mutters. Daphne snorts.

“Huh. Well, it might hold some clues as to our Grave Digging Ghoul.” No pages folded over, no bookmarks of any kind. Fred reaches down to drag the chair out, flipping through just to make sure nothing is hidden between two pages. “Say, wasn’t there a library about two doors down from Philip Glowery’s house?”

Shaggy darts forwards just as he lowers himself down and plants on his rear on the floor.

“Ow! Shag! Why’d you pull the chair back?”

“Jinkies!” Velma rushes forwards and tilts the chair towards Fred so the long, thin spikes on the chair are at eye level. “Freddy, you might want to check where you sit in these haunted houses.”

Fred’s eyes are watering just at the sight of them. “Shag. I owe you several Knickerbocker Showstopper Glory Day Extra Extra Specials, OK?”

Shaggy pulls him upright and claps him on the back. “Like, man, if you stay intact long enough to buy them!”

-0-0-

4.

“Lie still, man. Like, don’t move a muscle. They’re on their way. Just, like, stay still, OK?”

“Who’s on their way? Where are we?” Fred squints his eyes open, stares up into Shaggy’s pinched, worried face. What, have they run out of Scooby Snacks? He wriggles enough to get an arm out to push him up, only for Shaggy to pin him back down again.

“Freddy, don’t move. The Pterodactyl Ghost knocked your hang-glider and you crashed. Daph and Velma are on their way with a doctor, but just, like, don’t move.”

Oh. And now Fred’s feeling the pain from his leg and his front. “I was in the lead,” is all he can think to say.

“Like, yeah, man, you were.” Shaggy moves about in Fred’s swimming field of view, and a warm furry mass settles itself beside him. Scooby Doo.

“Uh… hey, Scoob.”

“Reddy.” Warm, heavy head on his chest, pinning him in place. The dull ache in his side and leg are slowly increasing; he closes his eyes and grits his teeth as a cold nose snuffles at the little pocket at the collar of his suit. “Reddy rought Rooby Racks?”

“I thought I’d give them to you at the finish point, Scoob,” Fred says faintly. Everything is so hazy.

“Like, give ‘em to us when the hospital’s fixed you up, old buddy, old friend.” And Shaggy disappears; Fred cranes up to look for him, wincing, and Scooby nudges him back down again. “Hey! Over he-eeeere! OVER HEEEEEERE!”

Thank goodness for Shaggy’s freaky armspan and that bright green T-shirt, Fred thinks as he lets the grey fog take over again.

-0-0-

5.

“Welcome home, ascot boy,” Shaggy says, holding the garage door open. Fred scowls at him, clambering stiffly out of the van and fumbling for his crutches.

“Funny, Norville.”

Shaggy shrugs. “Like, at least I didn’t make a physiotherapy appointment on Daphne’s birthday.”

The blood drains from Fred’s face. “It’s-? Ohhhhhhh no.”

Shaggy yanks a bunch of orange flowers and a brightly-wrapped package from a bucket beside the garage door and throws them at Fred, who drops the crutches to catch them. “Like, hey! I got you out of trouble with Daph by wrapping her an extra present for you, and you finally started putting weight on your leg!”

Fred wobbles backwards, just as Shaggy rushes forwards to steady him. “Uh, Shaggy. I don’t think broken legs work that way.” The flowers fall to the floor as he wraps his other arm around Shaggy and hugs him tight, patting him hard on the back. “Thanks, pal. You saved my butt.”

“Any time, man.”


End file.
